


King in the Ruins

by IstTyrr



Category: Andromeda Six (Visual Novel)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Internal Monologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27043435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IstTyrr/pseuds/IstTyrr
Summary: Originally wrote this for the "Attack" prompt. But Zane has been talking to me non-stop since then. So here we are.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	King in the Ruins

Soft rain had already started falling when they moved outside the safehouse, pattering against the padding of his armour. Zane gazed up at the quickly darkening sky, letting the cool drops stain his face. Overhead, the dusty banner marked with an azure sun, was lifted slightly upon the wind that picked up with the worsening weather. The sight was so familiar, he used to barely spare a glance at it. But lately, he found it drew his gaze all the more. It was the questions that wouldn't leave him alone.  
  
He checked the rifle in his hands for the umpteenth time, ensuring a full clip and adjusting the scope. Tonight was not meant to be different than any other raid they'd ever planned. An attack on the most convenient target, a K'Merii convoy meant to resupply one of their farthest bases. The coming storm was playing right into that, cutting them off from air completely. Instead, it would all become _theirs_ \- food, medicine and ammo. At least, he _hoped_.   
**_K'Merii_.**  
Zane spat out in the dirt at his feet as the name rolled off his mind. They had been pushing lately, pushing like they meant to take him for everything he had. Just his luck, to think that once Zovack took the throne, he would be rid of these bastards for good. Not that it surprised him. He knew tyrants, knew them _intimately,_ knew that when one of them got their hooks into something, they never, _ever_ , let slip. Even a place as forsaken as Cursa. Once a tyrant, always a tyrant.

His eyes skimmed over the gang, gearing up or rushing past as they prepared for the assault, surveying each of them quietly with steady gaze. The rustle of his banners, unfurling violently above them, once again wrenched away his attention. How long had they been doing this? Far too long. So long that not even the oldest among them could remember a time when things were different. A time when they didn't have to fight over scraps and somebody actually knew or cared about sustaining this place. But now, even this piece of dirt that he had spattered with blue was dwindling, chipped away at constantly from all sides. He never had any ambition, beyond keeping the borders of this patch of land, maybe even push them a little further but that was never meant to last. Not at the cost of blood he was willing to shed.

Cursa was to him an old lover and once, he might have revelled in the thrill of taming her. Lately, it was starting to feel more and more like a chore. What was he still doing on this planet? Why didn't he leave? He had all the power and the back-up to do it now. Let the rest of these fuckers fight among themselves and pick up the pieces in his wake. _But_ \- a hand clapping him on the shoulder, a look and a nod to let him know they were almost ready to move out- maybe a part of him liked the way they looked to him for leadership. Maybe a part of him cared enough to stay and do it regardless. Maybe he was so used to this life, he wouldn't even know how to begin somewhere else. _Maybe_.

* * *

Gripping at the side of the sink, his knuckles turned white as he steadied himself through the strain of stitching his own skin. The shrapnel that had dug a hole in his flesh, right above the kevlar lining, now gleamed inside a sink that had already turned red with blood. Zane pressed a cloth against the wound on his chest. The sneer of pain on his dull reflection, looked a lot like grinning. He pushed his mouth into it.  
  
That grin, he had mastered it. Wearing it as he led them into the fray, _once more unto the breach dear friends_ , not knowing how many would make it out alive, if any. Letting them believe there was some plan for the future, when he didn't have the first clue what tomorrow looked like. Wearing it as he toyed and taunted and chipped away, even over things he had no real stakes in. Just because he could. Wearing it through gritted teeth, with the taste of blood on his tongue. Wearing it so long, he had forgotten if there was ever anything else he was supposed to show or feel. It wasn't about control. The need to survive, to come out on top and not get gobbled up and spat out, had scrubbed it all clean. Through the mirror, his eyes traced the jagged outlines of puckered scars that littered his torso, so many he had lost count. Zane forced a chuckle then sobered up, giving himself a good, hard stare. That line, the one that cut through his right eye. He smirked, stretching the skin between his fingers. That one amused him the most. **_Her_.**

The root of all that ailed him. She had chased that little mouse right into his den. _T_ _ruce_. It had never been about that. Oh, he knew already. One look and he knew. They didn't have to open their mouth and remove all doubt. Nobody plays diplomat around here. News, on the other hand, spread like chemical fire. And the order of the day, that when Zovack finished counting bodies up at that golden palace, he came up one short. It didn't take much to realise, that maybe _this_ the one who got away. They _were_ the message. A carrot dangled over his head, tied to a very short stick. Warning of a war they were not equipped to win, despite fighting it their whole damn lives.  
  
But the real outcome? He dread to even think it. And yet it was all he could do. What would it come to? A bargaining chip, just to make sure they stayed alive a little longer, to kill each other in peace? A dare, to pick the winning side or get trampled? He hated every choice. That little mice would run any old maze for a whiff of cheese, a promise of something that was never theirs to begin with. That even old rats couldn't tell a clever trap, closing in from all sides. It didn't matter. He had lived so long on this rock, skinned his knuckles up a mountain of corpses but still, it wasn't enough. There were no good tyrants. In the end, they were all just _fodder_. Zane chuckled to himself. He laughed to even consider the notion. That maybe -just maybe- this time, he would choose differently.


End file.
